


3am in Argentina

by stevienickz



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bisexual Oikawa Tooru, Clubbing, Dancing with Oikawa in an Argentinian Nightclub, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Grinding, I listened to so much reggaeton while writing this, Lust at First Sight, Oikawa Tooru is a Little Shit, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, is this who we are? is this who we represent?, mad horny hours, romanticizing clubbing because i miss it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29564889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevienickz/pseuds/stevienickz
Summary: You watch, entranced, as he leans forward to pluck your lit cigarette from your fingers. His lips settle atop the red mark your lipstick left behind, and he inhales, those starlit eyes never leaving yours. Something passes between the both of you, like a bolt of electricity, and you feel every nerve ending in your body come alive. It’s animal attraction, you realize, something you can’t run away from or deny or repress.By the time he hands you back your cigarette, a smirk tugging at his mouth, you’ve decided that you’re going to give this pretty boy the ride of his life.In which you happen to be at the nightclub where Club Atlético San Juan chooses to celebrate their tournament win and end up meeting Oikawa Tooru.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Kudos: 33





	3am in Argentina

**Author's Note:**

> urgh many many thoughts right now.

There’s electricity in the air tonight.

  
You take a moment to lean back in your plastic chair and exhale cigarette smoke upwards towards the sky, where a glowing white crescent moon hangs. Summer nights in San Juan are when the city truly comes alive. The stifling heat of the day dies as the sun sets, leaving behind a pleasant warmth that isn’t sticky or tiring. There’s the thick smell of charcoal and fire and cooking food in the air, from the barbeques set up in front of cafes in the street, selling thin cuts of meat in grilled buns. Somewhere to your left, a rowdy group of men are yelling about the football game that had aired that previous day, and children are screaming and playing while their parents smoke and drink even despite the late hour.

  
You loved San Juan during the day. You loved the hustle and bustle of the city, the freedom of it, but San Juan during the night was when magic happened.  
Your friends had decided to pregame at your favourite spot—a small little bar right on the edge of the clubbing district. The drinks are cheap and the owners, a cute middle-aged couple, are all too happy to bring out round after round of cocktails and beers for the five of you. You’re giggling away with each other, the alcohol making you feel light, and it feels like the stress of your working week is slowly evaporating into the musky air with every minute that passes.

  
_“There’s nothing a night of dancing can’t cure,”_ is what your mother would say to you when you’d sit beside her as she’d ready herself for a night out with her own friends, hypnotised by the way she would slowly but surely transform herself into a completely different woman through the use of cosmetics. Like a caterpillar in its cocoon, she’d swipe on eyeliner and mascara and glimmering lipgloss and come out a butterfly, glowing and brand new. 

  
That’s what you felt like in that moment. A butterfly, set free from its cocoon, looking for a branch to settle on. Or maybe that’s the alcohol talking.

  
After a few minutes of playful arguing, you decide as a group that you’re going to spend the rest of the night in El Barrio, San Juan’s most exclusive nightclub. One of your friends had seen on social media that the city’s volleyball team had picked it as their celebration venue for their win of some tournament that you could care less about, and was putting money down on whether or not they could get the team’s libero back to their apartment. You didn’t follow volleyball and so didn’t even know what ‘libero’ meant, but you bet twenty pesos that they wouldn’t be able to. 

  
“Someone needs to be the bad guy,” you grin as your friend groans at you for ‘jinxing’ them. “Besides, I’m raking in bank if I win. It’s nothing against you, it’s just a smart business investment.”

  
You settle your tab with the owners of the bar and start making your way down the cobblestoned streets towards where El Barrio sits. The muted sounds of heavy bass and reggaeton call to you as you amble closer, and anticipation makes you feel giddy as the familiar neon green banner of the club comes into view. 

  
The line outside El Barrio is massive, curling around the block in a sea of chattering people, but one of your friends guides your group to the VIP entrance. 

  
“I talked to the promoter,” they grin at you, pulling a set of glossy VIP passes out of their bejewelled clutch. They hand them over to the awaiting bouncer and the thick red rope is lifted for you all. You don’t even bother asking how exactly they managed to pull that off. From the mischievous grin on their face, it’s obvious that, realistically, there hadn’t been that much talking involved.

Your breath catches in your throat as the five of you step inside. El Barrio lives up to the rumours. You’d never been in it, preferring the smaller—cheaper—clubs that you’d frequented since you were a teenager, but this was a whole different beast.

  
It’s so dark inside that the bodies on the club’s sprawling dancefloor are black silhouettes writhing in the midst of the thick smoke clouds that are being blown over them from machines above. The smell of burning plastic and sweat is heavy in the air and you inhale it, feeling alive.

Tarzan by El Alfa is playing and the bass feels it’s punching you in your chest. Strobe lights come on and swipe across your field of vision and for a moment, everything is illuminated in purples and pinks and greens. The DJ’s booth above the crowd with the woman at the turntables waving a hand at the dancing mass in front of her, the wide bar to the left with the handful of workers sliding glasses of tequila and vodka and beer bottles across the wet surface, the darkened corners where couples hide, revealed momentarily by the bright light beams. It’s like something out of a movie and it revives you, fills you with the urge to move. 

“Let’s go dance!” you yell to your friends over the music. One of them yells back that she’s going to get a drink, and two of you decide to join her while the others follow you into the madness on the dancefloor, all promising to meet up later.

Tarzan is expertly fading into GOTA GOTA by Zion & Lennox as you and your friends manage to find a gap in the bodies to be able to move freely. You raise your hands up towards the ceiling and let your hips move to the beat of the music. It’s stifling in the midst of it all, the body heat of the people around you, the thick smoke, and the ear-ringing volume of the music combining to make your head swim already. The alcohol you drank beforehand is catching up to you, giving you a boost of confidence, and you let loose, your thighs burning as you dip slightly to whine your waist.

You’re pulled out of the trance you find yourself in when one of your friends suddenly reaches out and grabs your shoulders. They shake you, eyes wide and bright with excitement even in the darkness. 

“They’re here!” she screams at you. “Look! The volleyball team I was talking about! I want the short one! Isn’t he cute!?”

You let yourself be spun around to face the front of the club. There’s a group of men standing there, looming over the crowd like they command it. Most of them are tall, easily over six foot, and they're all wearing blue jerseys that turn purple when the strobe lighting passes over them.They’re built thick in the way most athletes are, with broad shoulders and wide grins and teeth glimmering white. The one your friend is gesturing wildly towards is shorter than the others, probably around five foot six, and has black hair cropped short to his scalp. 

  
“We have to go say hi!” your friend squeals into your ear.

Your friend ignores you when you protest, her grip tightening so she can pull you along with her easily. When you emerge out of the crowd, most of the players have already started making their way towards the bar, where people are hooting and hollering at the sight of them.

_“Well, if it isn’t the tournament winners! Club Atletico! Club Atletico! Bartender, buy each of these men a shot! On me! It’s on me!”_

  
The guy your friends wants—the libero, you remember—is laughing with the two teammates left behind, but they immediately go silent when your friend calls out a greeting. Three pairs of eyes skim over you, curious, and your breath catches in your throat. While the other two men look away after a moment to focus on your overexcited (and definitely tipsy) friend who’s laying it on thick and chattering away, one of them stays fixated on you.

  
Fuck, he’s pretty. Beautiful, even. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the intimate mood that the setting creates, maybe it’s the deep sensual beat of the Daddy Yankee song that you vaguely recognise is playing, or maybe it’s just way he’s looking at you, but in that moment—there, in El Barrio, surrounded by strangers—you feel your stomach clench and your mouth go dry.

  
He’s taller than you and tanned golden from the sun. His hair is thick and dark and styled in an artfully messy way that would look ridiculous on someone else but, somehow, he makes it work. He shifts towards you and you watch the muscles in his biceps ripple under the passing strobe light. And his eyes—his eyes. He’s looking at you like you’re the only one in the room, and it feels the same on your end. Everyone seems to fade away until it’s just the two of you, standing there, connected by something otherworldly.

You don’t even realize you’ve moved closer to him until all you can smell is the cologne on his shirt—it’s sweet, and heady, and it sets you alight. You don’t exactly understand what it is that you’re feeling yet and it’s scary how your heart races in your chest, beating rapidly in unison to the music blasting behind you, but you’ve never been a coward and you’re not gonna start now.

“What’s your name?” you ask him, close enough now that you don’t have to yell for him to hear you. Close enough to see the faint smattering of freckles on his nose.

There’s something cocky in the crooked smile he flashes you, like he knows the effect he’s having on you. If he was anybody else, another man, you would’ve been annoyed by it, but he wears it so well that you only feel that knot in your stomach get tighter.

“You don’t know who I am?” he gasps in an overly dramatic manner, lifting a hand to his broad chest. “Surely, you must be joking.”

His voice is high, almost whiny, but it suits him in the same way that his dumb hair does. He’s an amalgamation of attributes that, on anyone else, would come off as irritating and self-centred, but on him it’s alluring. It’s alluring, and it’s pulling you in something crazy.

“He’s Tooru Oikawa!” your friend pipes up from beside you. You jolt, because you’d truly forgotten they were even standing there. “The team’s setter. That means you make up all the plays, right? You control the team?”

“He wishes!” the libero pipes up with a laugh. He’s got an arm slung around your friend’s shoulders, you realize, and they wiggle their eyebrows at you when you make meaningful eye contact. Looks like you’re gonna be out of twenty pesos.

Oikawa’s voice becomes syrupy-sweet, almost bitchy. “Jealousy is a disease, Manuel. Get better soon.”

“Dickhead,” the libero, Manuel, grunts, but his eyes crinkle with amusement. “Why don’t you take this pretty lady out to the dancefloor, let loose a little bit. What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks you. You introduce yourself briefly, and then he turns back to Tooru, who you notice is mouthing your name to himself, like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Fuck.

“Forget about you-know-who and all your troubles,” Manuel is saying as you refocus. “I’m sure she’ll show you a good time.”

The smile on Tooru’s face turns sharp. Your intuition screams at you to say something, anything, and you step into the conversation to thank Manuel for his compliment.

“You like to dance right?” you then ask Tooru, who’s eyes have lost their dangerous edge. Te Bote by Nio Garcia has come on, one of your favourite songs of all time, and you suddenly want to throw ass more than you want to be standing there talking. Preferably, with Tooru there to catch it.

“Are you asking me if I like to dance or if I’d like to dance with _you_?” he shoots back, tone coquettish. 

You edge in a little closer, all too aware of the watching eyes of his teammates and your friend. Your hand moves up to grab the neck of his jersey and tug him down, so the tips of your noses are almost touching.

“I think you know what I’m asking,” you murmur. “Now, shall we?”

Tooru exhales, his breath minty and warm on your face. “Whatever the lady wants,” he answers.

You tangle your fingers with his, blood racing at the brush of your palms, and turn to lead him to the dancefloor. 

It’s easier to find space to dance now that you’re with Tooru. People seem to recognise and respect him, unconsciously giving him a berth. Some reach out to pat him on his back, congratulating him, but he ignores them, heavy-lidded eyes resting intently on you.

You don’t waste any time, embarrassingly eager. You couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before. You press yourself against the hard lines of his body, slotting in a leg in between his. He smells good. So, so good, and you want to tuck your face into his neck and breathe him in.

Your hips start moving in unison, grinding against each other to the beat as Bad Bunny’s verse comes on. He’s wearing tight jeans and the rough material feels like heaven against you, fanning the fire that’s burning low in your belly. One of his hands presses against the small of your back, fingertips resting just above the curve of your ass. The other reaches up and curls into your hair. You breathe out a shaky moan as he tugs your head back, so your neck is bared to him.

You roll your hips forward, thighs burning with that familiar strain, trying not to lose your balance when his lips brush against your clammy skin. He kisses you gently there, tongue dipping out to taste your sweat, and you _clench_. 

You don’t know how long the both of you stay like that. Him, with his hips moving against yours in a confident, sure motion, his lips leaving a trail of wet kisses from your ear almost down to your collarbone; you, dissolving like putty in his hands. Te Bote has long ago ended and now Nicky Jam’s X is what your waist circles in time to.

The spell is broken when something vibrates against your leg. Tooru swears under his breath, pulling away from you, and you’re embarrassed by the whine that leaves your mouth at the sudden lack of contact. 

It’s his phone. One hand still on you—it had drifted lower since you’d started dancing, and is now firmly gripping your ass cheek—he pulls it out of his pocket and squints down at the screen. Whatever he sees displeases him. His mouth turns down in a sneer and he pulls away from you. You feel cold suddenly, even with all the heat that the mass of bodies around you emanates.

“I’ve gotta take care of this,” he says, loud to be heard over the music.

You don’t even have time to stammer out a reply before he’s disappearing into the throng and you lose sight of him.

The vibe is awkward for a while after Tooru vanishes. You reunite with your friends on the dancefloor and ignore their questioning looks, instead trying to relight the spark that you’d felt at the start of the night. You’d come out to enjoy yourself and have fun, and you were going to do so even without the setter and the strange effect he had on you.

You dance until your feet hurt and the pain in your thighs has escalated into something agonizing, a good sign that you need to take a break. Decision made, you yell to your friends that you’re going for a smoke, reassure them that you’ll be fine on your own, and then start making your way towards the wide opening at the back of the club.  
It’s calmer when you step out into the night air. There’s only a handful of people out there with you—it’s barely even reached the peak of the night and so most are still inside, dancing and drinking away. You’re lighting your cigarette, back pressed against the cold brick wall, when you spot him. 

Tooru is standing a few metres away from you with a hand on his hip, the other wrapped tight around his smartphone. You’re surprised you didn’t notice him beforehand when you’d first came out. He’s growling something into the receiver, brows furrowed, and it takes you a moment to realize that he’s not speaking Spanish. 

You wait patiently, smoking in silence, until he says _adios, Iwa-Chan_ in a tone ringing with finality, hangs up, and shoves his phone back into his pocket. It’s only then that you call out to him, unable to help yourself. You don’t know what it is about him that makes you feel almost greedy. The time you spent together dancing inside wasn’t enough—you want more of him. You just haven’t decided how much more, yet. (Or maybe you have, but you don’t want to come to terms with this visceral pull that you have towards a man you barely know).

  
Tooru closes the distance between you in a moment. Outside, the scent of his cologne is stronger almost, and you feel your head spin when he leans a shoulder against the wall beside you. 

“Sorry I left like that,” he murmurs. “I didn’t want to but that was a call I couldn’t ignore.”

“It’s alright,” you say, after a deep pull of your cigarette. “Who’s Iwa-Chan?”

“Would you be mad if I said it was my boyfriend?” his smile is lopsided, joking almost, but his eyes are serious.

You narrow your eyes at him, thumb flicking at the butt of your cigarette, sending a little plume of ashes flying. _Would_ you be mad? 

“No,” you say after a few seconds of quiet deliberation. “I wouldn’t.”

The tension leaves his face. “Great,” he grins, “because he’s not! Besides, forget about him. I’m focused on someone much more important right now.”

Oh. 

You watch, entranced, as he leans forward to pluck your lit cigarette from your fingers. His lips settle atop the red mark your lipstick left behind, and he inhales, those starlit eyes never leaving yours. Something passes between the both of you, like a bolt of electricity, and you feel every nerve ending in your body come alive. It’s animal attraction, you realize, something you can’t run away from or deny or repress.

By the time he hands you back your cigarette, a smirk tugging at his mouth, you’ve decided that you’re going to give this pretty boy the ride of his life.

You don’t pause to think or hesitate. You simply finish your cigarette, throw the still smouldering butt into an ashtray on a nearby table, and then reach up to wrap your arms around his neck. 

Tooru bends down to meet you halfway, hands tugging you closer by your hips. Your lips meet and there’s fireworks in your stomach, your blood red hot in your veins. Your mouths open to slide your tongues together, and he tastes like spearmint and something muskier—something that’s all him. 

“Touch me,” you gasp when you break apart for much needed air. His chest is heaving against yours, brushing against your pebbled nipples, and you’ve never wanted someone’s hands on you more. Not just on your hips, but everywhere. “Tooru, _please_ , touch me.”

He soars forward to press his lips against yours once more and you swallow his answering groan. His hand moves down to tug the hem of your dress upwards and you lift your hips away from the wall to make the movement easier for him. _More more more more_ you think, and it feels like you’re losing your mind.

  
His fingertips are nudging your panties to the side when you register the sound of voices. You’d forgotten that you weren’t alone. Sure, you’re tucked into a shadowed corner of the club’s smoking area, but you’re not fully hidden from view. Anyone can look over and see you being pinned by Tooru Oikawa, Club Atletico San Juan’s apparently very recognisable setter.

“It’s okay,” Oikawa breathes, pulling away to rest his cheek against yours. You’re shivering against him, nails digging into the skin of his neck. He’s hot to the touch. “No one’s gonna see,” he whispers, his fingers dipping into the cleft of your thighs once more. “I’ve got you...”

You can’t help the involuntary spread of your legs when his two fingers brush against your clit. He circles it gently and you clench on nothing but air, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to hold back the moan building in your chest. Oh, fuck.

“Good girl,” he says softly into your ear. “Just like that, huh?”

He plays with your clit until your legs are shaking and it feels like he’s the only thing holding you upright. You’re beyond wet, your juices leaving your thighs damp. You need something, anything.

“Tooru,” you whine. “Please.”

“Please what?” he teases. “Use your words, angel.”

“Oh, God,” your head falls backwards into the unyielding brick behind you. “Please, please, please—”

You don’t know what you’re begging for. Anything he’ll give you, all of it, all of him. 

He dips a finger into you and your hips stutter. He curls it, thumb pressed firmly against your clit, and you can’t help the noises that escape you. His hand moves slow, steady, controlled, and your eyes water. It feels good—it feels so good.

“You’re so tight,” he groans, tongue flicking out to trace the shell of your ear. You tighten around his fingers and his hips thrust forward into your leg, like an involuntary reaction to you. “You think you’re wet enough for me to fuck you? Right here?”

“Yes yes yes yes yes—” 

You no longer give a fuck if anyone sees you there, head thrown back in pleasure, one of Argentina’s best athletes playing with your pussy so good that you feel like crying. You want him inside of you, deep enough that you can taste it.

You whimper when he pulls his finger out of you, but there’s no time to voice your disapproval when you’re being spun to face the wall behind you. You feel him hard against the back of your thigh, the noticeable lump in his jeans pressing against you, and circle your ass against him helplessly. You’ve never wanted anyone to fuck you so bad in your life.

“Do you want this?” his voice is soft, a stark opposite to the rough way his hands grip at the bunched-up fabric on your hips. “Will you let me fuck you now, angel?”

“Yes,” you hiss, reaching back to pull at his shirt. “God, yes!”

You writhe impatiently as he releases you to unbutton his jeans. You hear the familiar crinkle of a condom being ripped open, and then he’s tight against you again. He nudges your legs further apart and you rush to accommodate him. 

Your knees almost give out when you feel the head of his cock brush against you. He runs it down your slit slowly, teasingly, and you dig your fingernails into the cracks of the brick in front of you. 

“So wet,” you hear him whisper. “All this for me, huh?”

You’re seconds away from screaming at him to fuck you already when he finally starts easing his length inside of you. He’s thick, almost uncomfortably so, but you’re so wet that the stretch feels amazing. Your thigh shake when he bottoms out, breath hot and heavy against your neck. 

“So, so tight,” he keens, and you pulse against him. His hips twitch forward and it feels like he’s even deeper, brushing against something inside you that makes your eyes roll back helplessly.

You’re half gone by the time he starts moving properly, thrusting in a slow and steady rhythm. 

“You feel so good, angel. So, so good for me.”

You feel his knees bend slightly behind you and then when he thrusts into you again, sparks fly behind your eyelids. You gasp out his name and scramble for purchase against the wall, unable to do nothing but take it as his dick curves into you so good that you can barely string together a coherent thought.

He speeds up, pounding into you so hard that your cheek scrapes harshly against the brick. You can’t find it in yourself to care, so focused on how good he’s making you feel that every other sensation is muted.

He’s grunting praises in your ear, how tight you are, how good you feel, how close he is, and you can do nothing but sob out his name. When his hand comes around your hip to dip down and rub a finger to your clit, you see stars. You tighten around him, your orgasm rushing over you in a wave of sensation. 

“Fuck!” Tooru cries out, and then his hips stutter once, twice, a third time before you feel him swell and spill inside of you.

You both take a moment to catch your breath. Awareness comes back to you slowly, like a veil being lifted from your mind. The people that were there before are gone, and it’s just the two of you, breathing heavy against each other. You’re still twitching around him in little aftershocks when he slides out of you, leaving you feeling empty.

You remain facing the wall as he fixes you, tugging your underwear back into place and pulling your skirt back down over your ass. He moves off you to dispose of the condom into a nearby bin and then comes back to turn you around so that you’re facing him once more.

You still feel somewhat dazed, your legs are shaking and you’re sure that your cheek has visible marks from the wall. Tooru, on the other hand, looks almost like himself again, fully composed and grinning.

“I think,” you pause to suck in more air. It feels like your lungs can’t get enough, “that you’ve ruined me for other men.”

Tooru laughs. “Good,” he says, “because I fully intend to keep you.”

You stare at each other for a minute. The moonlight shines through his hair, turning it almost silver, and he’s so beautiful in that moment that it hurts. It hurts, and part of you kind of wants to fuck him again.

Wait. _Keep me?_

“Keep me?” you raise an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“Does it matter? Anyways, don’t we have a dance to finish?”

You don’t even bother arguing with him when he drags you back inside.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ngl i might write a lil follow up one-shot to this but what do you guys think?
> 
> thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoyed ;)


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